


robert (has a quick hand)

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Rainbow Drinkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 13:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “Hey there,” a troll purrs down at you. When you tilt your head back, they’ve got big jade eyes, curling horns and the sort of angular features that remind you of if Pheres and Riccin got smashed together into one troll. They’ve also got a knife resting against the small of your back. “Sorry to bother you, miss, but can you spare a moment?”Under the drape of your shirt is a keratin vest, more than durable enough to keep any stab from being fatal. You’re not fucking stupid, no matter what this troll thinks you are. Every evening, you wash your face in the mirror, and you know what stares back: pupa-faced and round-cheeked, with a flatscan’s horns and a brownblood’s eyes, you’re practically the definition of an easy mark.Ever since Glory, you’ve been aggressively aware of that.“Sorry, brah, I only do ancestor worship,” you drawl. If this was any other caste, you’d just knock them out and be done with it. You’re so goddamn tired of every troll over yellow getting on your jock.You’re just kind of tired of trolls, honestly.Sipara collects a rainbow-drinker worm, and vents from frustrations.





	robert (has a quick hand)

Nott Terminal’s a huge, bustling metropolis of a station. It’s everything you’d pictured space would be, back when you were a pupa, with towering white buildings that glow under the midnight bulbs, light rail roads curve high above the skyline, and vents fucking everywhere. Honestly, it’s a good thing you don’t wear heels, or you’d be fucked: you’re watching the third troll this evening get his footwear stuck in a grate when someone steps behind you and slings an arm over your shoulder.

“Hey there,” a troll purrs down at you. When you tilt your head back, they’ve got big jade eyes, curling horns and the sort of angular features that remind you of if Pheres and Riccin got smashed together into one troll. They’ve also got a knife resting against the small of your back. “Sorry to bother you, miss, but can you spare a moment?”

Under the drape of your shirt is a keratin vest, more than durable enough to keep any stab from being fatal. You’re not fucking stupid, no matter what this troll thinks you are. Every evening, you wash your face in the mirror, and you know what stares back: pupa-faced and round-cheeked, with a flatscan’s horns and a brownblood’s eyes, you’re practically the definition of an easy mark.

Ever since Glory, you’ve been aggressively aware of that.

“Sorry, brah, I only do ancestor worship,” you drawl. If this was any other caste, you’d just knock them out and be done with it. You’re so goddamn tired of every troll over yellow getting on your jock.

You’re just kind of tired of trolls, honestly.

But you’ve been curious about jades ever since Hadean let you in on their bloody little secrets, and you don’t exactly have the cash to replace this shirt just yet. You don’t like dipping into Hadean’s money. It’s been you supporting him, since basically forever, and the switch in roles lately just isn’t something you’re finding very tolerable.

“I think you’ll change your mind if you listen to my spiel,” they argue sunnily, and dig the knife in a little harder.

So you don’t let the troll bury the knife into your back. You stand up, sliding your chair back in a shriek of plastic on metal, and you eye up your dessert mournfully before you trail them away from your little street-side table, down the street, and into a tucked away little corner. The jade’s nattering the entire time, the sort of bullshit smalltalk meant to make sure folks aren’t looking at you, but - right now, you don’t care.

There’s a building there. Or - no, it’s a shady-ass maintainence closet, the sort that probably leads all the way into the sewers of the station. They nudge you inside, clicking the door neatly shut behind them, and you click your teeth, amused.

“‘kay,” you chirp, “this is, like, way more convenient than I expected -”

\- and you drive your elbow into their gut with a violet’s strength.

There was a point that you could almost enjoy fighting folks. You’re not Ico! It’s not like you’re weird about it, in all the ways he is, and you’re not like Riccin, where it’s just another excuse to get their hands on folks. It’s just something you’re good at, and it’s fun, usually speaking.

This isn’t really fun. It’s just kind of boring, and it’s sad. You could feel sort of bad about it, if they hadn’t grabbed you first, but.. you’re not a big fish in space. You’re not even a little one. You’re a fucking small fry, and it seems like everyone’s been grabbing you, lately.

You’re fucking sick of it, as much as you are trolls in general, so maybe, like, you get a little more brisk in culling them than you really ought to. But whatever. It ends quick, and it ends fast.

There’s only so many ways that parasites can work, and you’ve memorised all of them over the sweeps. You don’t think there’s just one cause of vampirism. It doesn’t make any sense, with all the variants of stories you’ve heard over the sweeps, and brought up in your last perigee of research. But it doesn’t matter what type you’re looking at right now.

For the consumption of blood to work, there’s only one thing that makes sense. And a parasite like a rainbowdrinkers, you think, has to encase the stomach no matter where else it does.

They’d locked the door behind you. There’s no one here to see you. But if someone starts pounding on the door and finds you in here with a dead jade, they’ll probably still cull you on the spot. So you don’t dawdle. You work fast, and you work efficiently, and by the end of it - sure enough, there’s a thing inside the body cavity, lying right where literally every organ ought to be.

Nah, it’s not a thing. It’s a fucking worm.

It doesn’t have eyes. It doesn’t have fangs! When you reach down and end, gently lifting the first coil out, it’s slick and wet in your hands, cold as the jade you just wrenched it free from. But the skin cupped in your hand isn’t jade. No, it’s red, the same red as the empress’s trident, or the surface of the sun, and something inside of it glows with each pulse of its heart.

It feels like something’s glowing inside you, too, with each pulse. Because this ugly little fucker, with its bright red husk and its slimy skin, has got to be the best thing you’ve seen in perigees. It’s something that almost makes all of this worth it.

And it’s kind of ugly-cute, too.

So you gently set it down on top of the jade, then slide your scarf off, wiping your hands in the process. A quick set of twists turns it into sling, and when you drop the worm inside, it hangs heavy, but functional. It’s dual purposed, really. It keeps the worm away from the heat of your skin, and it covers your shirt.

You’re working under Ullane, but that doesn’t mean you want to wander the streets wearing jade on your hide.

“You’re going to have to be brave,” you warn the worm. “And you’re going to have to be strong! We’re only a few blocks away, though, so, like, you can do it, 'kay?”


End file.
